


Ways to Show You Care

by red_crate



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Codependency, Friendship, Gen, Grooming, Soft Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29121390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/pseuds/red_crate
Summary: Three times Jaskier and Geralt take care of each other.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	Ways to Show You Care

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last summer with no real plot in mind, just vibes.

Jaskier was quite certain he was going to throw up. In fact, he didn’t know why he wasn’t already retching into the bushes, though the wave of relief rolling through him at seeing the witcher still breathing after all of...that probably had a hand in staying Jaskier’s nausea. He swallowed thickly, with a grimace, as he picked his way over to Geralt. “Fuck that’s disgusting. I swear there is more of that graveir on you than there is on the ground. I can barely see your eyes!” The fat moon hanging in the sky had shed enough light for Jaskier to see most of the skirmish, but Geralt was obscured in grime and guts. 

Geralt didn’t reply, not even a grunt of irritation. As Jaskier fluttered nearby, unsure what to do now that he was no longer in imminent danger, he realized his traveling companion hadn’t come out of this battle fully unscathed. 

“You’re hurt!” He grimaced again as Geralt very carefully and painfully sheathed his sword across his back. The fingers of his left hand were bent unnaturally. As Jaskier stepped closer to him, Geralt hefted the great head of beast and stalked towards the thicket where he’d left Roach. After settling the evidence of his kill in an empty pack on Roach’s back, he stared down at his broken hand. Jaskier could swear he saw a frown on his face before Geralt quickly popped the bent fingers into place. The sound was stomach turning, enough to finally tip Jaskier’s dinner out and have him losing it all at his feet. With a hoarse “what the fuck” of cringe, he bent and let his body revolt. 

If Geralt had any judgement to make at that, he kept his opinions to himself as Jaskier spat the last of the acid from his mouth and wiped at his lips with the back of a hand. “Are you going to be okay, then?” Jaskier rasped. “Don’t you need a healer? Is it broken or just dislocated?” 

As expected, Geralt ignored him in favor of gently urging Roach forward once he was seated in the saddle. Their camp wasn’t overly far from where the graveir had been reported to feast upon a family crypt of the local lord. Jaskier had petitioned they insist upon one of the rooms in the nicely appointed estate, but Geralt had overruled him by turning his heel and leaving the hall the second the matter of coin was settled. 

Walking along the path Roach made, Jaskier continued, “I wonder how much medical training you lot are given when you’re trained. Is there a whole lesson on wound care and stitching? What a grueling subject that must be, though I imagine most of the learning is equally gruesome.” He hummed, now that his stomach wasn’t revolting, he was swept up in the concept of witcher lessons. “I think there must be something there—loneliness and companionship amongst your peers as each of you weather the trials and tribulations of becoming a witcher.” 

It was all too easy to let his mind wander to the other hurts and wounds Geralt must have tended on his own, or perhaps convinced an unenthusiastic healer for aid. There were enough scars hidden beneath armor for easy fodder. He knew one of the benefits of witcher mutation was accelerated healing, but he didn’t know the rate of which they healed or if the extent of damage dictated how long the healing might occur. Perhaps Geralt had some potion in his satchel that sped the process. Broken fingers might be hardly the scarcest of inconveniences in that light. He wasn’t bashed open and bleeding, still had all four limbs attached and all. Jaskier soon found his current line of thought depressing. 

Bedding down for the night took little time, and Jaskier was comforted by the routine they’d fallen into in the aftermath of their skirmish with the graveir. It was too late to eat now, even if Jaskier’s appetite had returned. Geralt refused to relight the fire, and Jaskier might have pulled out his lute to press his fingers lightly across the strings more to irritate Geralt than to work, unseeing, on his latest ballad. It was simple, familiar, and Jaskier fell asleep on his back as he stared up at the clear black sky and thumbed and hummed a half formed thought. 

Madness. “You can’t stomp into that great hall and plonk down the graveir head looking like that!” Jaskier was scandalized at the very idea. 

Geralt had gone to sleep with barely doing more than taking off his boots last night, sleeping in his armor, still covered in gross things. Now, he and Jaskier had packed their things away, and Geralt set Roach towards town and the lord’s home. 

With an unimpressed expression, Geralt told Jaskier how little he cared about what the local lord thought of him.

“This thing between us,” and here Jaskier got a thrill out of the twitch of Geralt’s mouth at  _ that _ , “is a symbiotic relationship. You allow me to grace you with my companionship so that I can experience high adventure while composing impressive and renowned ballads.” He saw the skeptical tilt to Geralt's expression. “And those are to help smooth over your reputation. You need a good reputation if you expect anyone to honor their agreements with you.” 

Jaskier huffed, “Look, there’s a fine river just over there. Clear, clean water that can make you presentable.” 

When Roach made a sharp, quick trot the way he had just pointed, Jaskier startled before grinning at his own accomplishment. The set of Geralt’s shoulders was stern, his movements short as he took care of his horse. The river was calm, practically serene, as its current gently rushed along. Geralt surveyed their surroundings. He was as still as a corpse as Jaskier knew he was relying on his heightened senses to assess any monstrous dangers. 

“Is it to your liking?” Jaskier crossed his arms and waited for Geralt to relax. It took several more seconds and a look over the shoulder from Geralt before he received a slight nod. 

“Why in gods names didn’t you clean yourself last night?” Jaskier found himself drifting towards the witcher before he made the conscious decision to do so. His fingers attempted to help ease the closures of Geralt’s armor. The ties were caked in gooey and dried gunk. He didn’t want to look very closely at the slippery and sometimes flakey matter that his fingers collected with the effort. “This would have been infinitely easier.”

Geralt didn’t defend himself, but worked alongside Jaskier to unsheathe his shoulders and torso from the heavy studded leather bindings. Jaskier knew he wouldn’t receive any thanks for the help, but Geralt’s apparent easy acceptance was unexpected. He had been ready to be brushed off with a grunt at the very least, told to go fuck himself at the worst. 

Jaskier had cringed at the creak of the gloves and the slight hiss Geralt released as they carefully worked the glove off his injured hand.  _ So the healing wasn’t finished yet _ , Jaskier thought. After unlacing it all, the armor was easy to remove, leaving Geralt standing in his leather trousers and tunic. 

“Okay,” Jaskier sighed, feeling slightly out of breath from the wrestle with ties and leather. “You clean yourself, and I’ll do my best to get all of this looking near enough presentable.” 

Geralt let out a neutral sound before skimming out of his clothes and stalking into the river like he belonged there. Jaskier was stuck staring after him, unable to look away from the strong lines and wicked angles alluding to the power formed through hard won trials. 

He looked down to the heavy armor in his hands, covered in disgusting things yet having served its purpose of keeping its owner alive and relatively unharmed. 

Before Geralt, Jaskier had only heard the recycled tales from bards and read from romance novels. Now, he had faced monsters head-on and seen the toll paid to keep civilization together. 

With a heave, he carried the armor towards their bags to find a scrap of fabric he could employ for the task at hand. Several passes of damp cloth, and enough of the grime was removed for propriety. Jaskier was sweating at his temples, and a kind of quiet pride filled him at the completion of his job. He grinned as he spread the leather on rocks to finish drying. 

“There,” Jaskier announced with a flourish of his arms, presenting the mostly clean armor. He looked towards the river.

Geralt was standing naked on the shore, wet and glistening in the morning sunlight. His right hand twisted into a fist, knuckles flexing before he relaxed it once more. “It’ll take longer to get my pay.” His words didn’t hold as much annoyance as expected. 

“Uh,” Jaskier kept his eyes well above Geralt’s hips as he spoke, “You forgot something.”

Geralt ignored him to rummage through his pack. 

“Geralt, your hair. It’s still all,” here, Jaskier made a motion around his own head with a grimace, “It’s a disaster. Somehow it looks worse now than it did before.” 

Yellow eyes cut towards him as Geralt grunted with a frown. Honestly, from the spectacular lack of care the witcher paid to his appearance, Jaskier wondered why the long hair and smooth chin were kept. “Best I could do.” 

“Don’t hit me.” Jaskier kept his hands up in a placating gesture as he edged closer. “Here. The problem is this tie.” 

Roach’s tail twitched languidly while Geralt glared down at Jaskier. No punches thrown yet, and Jaskier was already easing the weathered tie undone. Silver strands were tangled with it and each other, catching in a matted mess barely smoothed by the weight of water. Each tug had Jaskier tensing for a blow, but when Geralt shifted it was merely to tilt his head back for better reach. This close, Jaskier could smell the river water and feel the heat rolling off him. Even though it was well into the warmth of spring, Jaskier found himself forcing himself not to lean closer. He studied the hair he fought with until he could comb his fingers through the length. Jaskier made sure not to watch the beads of water rolling down the curve of Geralt’s shoulder or to touch the soft skin of the back of his neck. 

“Much better.” Jaskier’s voice came out quietly as he ran his fingers through the hair one last time before taking a pace backwards. 

He should turn and give Geralt privacy, but nothing about the witcher’s countenance indicated he demanded it. Jaskier decided to make nothing of it. Best for their continued companionship. Geralt pulled his other pair of breeches out of the bag and easily slid into them despite the damp. He grunted and adjusted the front, tying it closed as Jaskier busied himself by unrolling the hems of his own trousers. 

The sharp call of a bird in the sky pierced the peaceful quiet surrounding them, and Jaskier looked away from the witcher. 

* * *

Noonday heat sweltered around them as they trudged forward. Always forward, to the next town, the next coin, the next foe. Jaskier found himself in ill spirits as the minutes dragged by, unable to amuse himself with winding stories for Geralt to either confirm or deny. He couldn’t even focus on setting the lyrics to the second stanza of his latest song. 

“Fuck,” he cursed with feeling, stopping abruptly. “ _ Fuck _ , Geralt.” 

Roach’s steps slowed as Geralt pulled at her reins to spare a glance backwards. “None of that to be had for several miles yet.” 

The quip surprised a laugh out of Jaskier, but even it came out a whine more than anything. “I don’t think I would be able to please anyone in the state I am.” 

With a rather amused grunt, Geralt shifted and set Roach forward again. His white hair was almost blinding in contrast to the brown  _ everything _ they traveled through. Jaskier glared at his back before taking the reluctant steps needed to catch up. 

“Have you no compassion? I am weak. I am  _ tired _ .” Jaskier kept glaring at the empty, dusty road before them. The landscape hadn’t changed an iota for days. Jaskier had sunburn over his cheeks and the slope of his nape, peeling skin as it healed too dry. 

“My shoulder is killing me,” he finally admitted, unable to keep from rolling his arm as if it would do any good. It hadn’t done anything to relieve the tight pain settled there since the morning. “I must have slept on every rock in this godforsaken desert last night.” 

“You’ll survive.” Geralt said, unfeeling. He added, with what Jaskier assumes was some level of wistful desire, “Or you won’t. I’ve never heard of a man dying from a sore shoulder.” 

Jaskier made a face and said, “You’re feeling awfully chatty today, witcher.” He tried tilting his head to get a good look at Geralt, but his shoulder instantly complained, pulling a hurt noise from his chest. “I never give you a hard time about your injuries.” 

“My sleep seldom leaves injuries for you to see.” Geralt grunted. Before Jaskier could reply, he conceded. “We will stop at the top of the next hill if it is safe.” 

Jaskier’s stomach was rumbling anyway, surely as Geralt’s must. He heartily agreed. “Yes! Wonderful. And it looks like we will be blessed with shade for our respite.” 

Lunch was dried meat and hard cheese, but it filled their bellies. Geralt had killed a rabbit the night before, and Jaskier found himself thinking of the succulent, tender meal as he chomped mechanically through his rations. It made the food more palatable. Passing the water skin back and forth, they relaxed in the relative coolness of the scraggly trees they camped beneath.

Jaskier was far from where he’d begun his life. As he looked at the sprawling expanse surrounding them, he felt satisfaction rise up. It may not be a life his family had envisioned for him, but it was one of his own choosing. A real adventure and experience. 

“I’m glad we came this way, even if it feels like we are walking through the pits of hell at times. Look at the beautiful pinks and reds of these hills. Like a perpetual sunset etched in rock.” 

Geralt finished taking another drag from the water skin before setting it aside and kneeling up. He reached for Jaskier slowly. 

“What?” Jaskier asked, confused, then worried. “Is there a monster behind me? A spider on me?” His voice crept higher. 

“Shut up.” 

Geralt’s hand was wide and hot when it landed on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier had shed his doublet earlier in the day, matching Geralt in his tunic as they both sought relief from the summer heat. Now, it felt as if there was nothing separating Jaskier’s skin from the witcher’s. The heat of Geralt’s hand seeped into his muscle, soothing instead of suffocating. Eyelids drooping, Jaskier let out a small whimper as he slouched beneath the comforting weight. 

“I don’t want to jinx myself,” Jaskier muttered slowly, “but I must say your hands are truly talented.” He lazily met Geralt’s golden gaze when the pressure of his fingers dug into the strain. 

“I told you to shut up.” Geralt grouched even as he swept his thumb up along the arch of Jaskier’s throat, along the spider web of hurt that spread there. 

Jaskier let his eyes close all the way. The gentle massage of Geralt’s fingers morphed into a deeper pressure as his fingers dig into the plane of muscle covering his shoulder blade. It ached, but in a different way than before. It was a satisfying and relieving ache. 

“Fuck, that’s as good as anything I could buy,” he confessed. 

He must have said something wrong, because Geralt removed his hand and sat back. Jaskier whined, eyebrows bunching. “No, come back.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Geralt announced as he stood. 

Jaskier refuses to move immediately, trying his best I hold onto the memory of relief. He sighed before gingerly rolling his shoulder. It felt better than it had by far. Next time he had a sore muscle, he’d be sure to needle Geralt into lending a dexterous hand to the situation. 

* * *

“What are you doing?” Geralt flicked a glance over his shoulder only to have his head firmly tilted forward again. 

Jaskier was perched on the back of the rough wooden chair Geralt had seated himself in. Knees bracketing Geralt’s ribs, he was tucked in tight and much closer than he would have dared a year ago. But such is the life of constant travel together—personal space was sacrificed for the sake of necessity. This wasn’t a necessary action, but Jaskier was known to take liberties, and Geralt hadn’t yelled at him yet. 

Combing his fingers through the grey-white locks in front of him, Jaskier said, “Fixing this mess in abysmal hope I won’t wake up with a mouthful of hair in my mouth in the morning.” 

Geralt grunted, clearly insulted and embarrassed. When he moved to stand and leave, Jaskier dug his knees into the tender places protected beneath Geralt’s arms. Through what sounded like clenched teeth, Geralt said, “If you wouldn’t cling the way you do, there wouldn’t be any problem.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes as he separated three 

sections of hair at the crown of Geralt’s head and began a loose plait. “I am cursed with cold blood, and you, my dear witcher, exude a plethora of heat. It just makes sense for you to share a little with your friend.” 

Geralt, curiously, only grunted. It sounded like a concession, and Jaskier grinned to himself as he worked the hair quickly and easily. It was smoother, softer than it looked to have any right to be. The silvery strands almost glistened when the light from the fire hit them just right. Jaskier found himself slowing his weaving in order to run the hair over his knuckles and examine just how well the fire shone in the highlights. 

“I’m not a maiden,” Geralt fussed without conviction. His back had relaxed until he was all but relaxing in the V of Jaskier’s legs, one arm draped over a knee. 

“No one could make the mistake,” Jaskier agreed. He was nearing the nape of Geralt’s neck and had to gently tap on the man’s head to make room for his fingers. “I don’t mean to offend you or your strikingly beautiful hair. I just don’t feel like plucking strands of it out of my mouth tonight.”

He decided not to plait the hair to the ends, and, instead, tied a strip of leather against the base of Geralt’s head. He combed his fingers through the free falling ends several times, just enjoying the feel.


End file.
